


Facing the Wind

by EbonyKnight



Series: Facing the East Wind [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9279476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: Greg realises that John beat the stuffing out of Sherlock and he ain't too happy about it. Contains spoilers for The Lying Detective.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or anything associated. 
> 
> I have so many questions after The Lying Detective, like how Sherlock managed to miss spending an evening with his own sister, which I'm assuming will be answered in The Final Problem. It was such a rollercoaster, and John's savage attack on Sherlock just about broke my heart. 
> 
> This is my response to that. I do not like John. At all. Haven't done for a long time, but now I _really_ don't like him. The man is a doctor, for Merlin's sake. This takes place somewhere between John leaving his shift of Sherlock-sitting and Sherlock getting control of his drug use enough to see clients again. It likely does not fit the canon, but I had to get it off my chest. 
> 
> Feedback is always welcome. 
> 
> Not beta'd so all mistakes are all mine, mine I say.

“Anyway, I told Mummy that I won’t be at Sunday dinner this weekend,” Sherlock babbled.

Greg looked up from his policing journal when the younger man sat on the sofa beside him. “How did she take it?”

“Not too happy, but I promised her that Mycroft will be there,” Sherlock replied, a mischievous glint in his glazed eyes. “Why on earth are you reading that rubbish? You're infinitely superior to the idiots who author those articles.”

“Not all of us read chemistry texts for fun, you know,” Greg said, poking Sherlock in the side. In years gone by, when seeing the younger man through a high or withdrawal, he'd have expected reactions anywhere from Sherlock biting his finger to petulantly storming off to his bedroom. What Greg didn't expect was for him to flinch away, expression tight with pain. Acting on instinct, he lifted Sherlock’s pyjama top and was appalled to find his abdomen covered in bruises, especially in the soft areas above his sharp hip bones.

“Jesus, Smith really must have done a number on you,” he said, aghast. 

Sherlock shook his head emphatically and pulled his top back down, wrapping his right arm around his chest protectively. “He was aiming for suffocation, but John arrived right on time, as I knew he would,” he replied, still speaking too fast and looking pleased with his own cleverness. “I calculated his arrival to perfection.”

Sherlock’s mention of John triggered Greg’s memory of interviewing the doctor after Sherlock’s attack on Smith. He had been running on exhaustion and bad coffee at the time, but he distinctly remembered John admitting to hitting Sherlock. “Did John do that?” he asked, keeping his voice as level as possible. 

“Hmm. He was angry and needed to get it out, so I provoked him. Might have taken it a bit too far though,” Sherlock replied, as though his best friend kicking ten bells of shit out of him was perfectly reasonable. Greg didn't know whether Sherlock meant that John had taken it too far, or he had taken his provocation too far, but that hardly mattered. 

He stood from the sofa and walked across to the window, anger coursing through him. He'd long known that John had a violent streak, but had let him off to a certain extent because Sherlock was nothing if not provocative. “You were off your face, yeah?” he asked, addressing the window.

“Yes. A little more than I expected to be, honestly. I must have miscalculated.”

“Right. You know that he should _not_ have done this? No matter what you did, beating you was not acceptable,” Greg said despite knowing that Sherlock wouldn't hear a word against John, but he was damned if he was going to let this slide this time. 

Silence fell, with Sherlock studying his fingernails like they held the answer to the universe and Greg doing his best not to rant about John fucking Watson.

The sound of an obscene moan broke the silence, and Greg turned to find Sherlock staring at his phone. “Irene doing well, is she?” 

“Very. She's working in the States; with the recent election result, there are rich pickings to be had for someone with her particular skillset. She has a new girlfriend, too: secretary in Trump Tower.”

“Been giving her advice?” Greg asked, mind drifting back to Sherlock’s sham relationship with Janine. Thinking about the younger man dating anyone was unsettling enough, never mind the thought of him getting engaged. 

“Now, that would be telling. You’re not going to tell me that I should be following after her to declare my undying love?” Sherlock asked scornfully, carefully moving his body so that he was laid the length of the sofa.

“Why the hell would I do that?” Greg asked, lifting Sherlock’s legs so that he could sit back down. He looked down at the younger man, eyes taking in the bruises and abrasions with renewed interest, knowing now that they were inflicted by John. “Unless your cock has got some sort of magical properties that can lure lesbians, of course.” His hand, of its own accord, started stroking Sherlock’s leg over the soft cotton of his pyjama bottoms.

Sherlock snorted. “John thinks I’m missing out on something and is determined that I need her love to complete myself as a human being.”

“Does he know you at all?” Greg asked, anger flaring anew. For all that relationships were not his area, Sherlock was definitely gay; surely to Christ his best friend knew that much.

“He always has missed the obvious. I've hardly tried to mask my attraction to you, for example, but he still thinks Irene will complete me." 

It took Greg’s brain a moment to catch up with the other man’s rapid speech, but when it did a pleasant flutter took up in his chest, which was ruthlessly quashed; it wasn't the first time that Sherlock had alluded to some sort of attraction, even going as far as to trying to kiss him on several occasions, but he had always been high at the time. 

“Your flat mate crushing on an aging grey copper isn’t exactly what most people would be on the lookout for though, is it?” Greg pointed out, though he was loath to defend John in any way.

Sherlock pushed himself back up to sitting and shuffled along the sofa until he was pressed against Greg’s side. His eyes still weren't right, and he was too thin and pale, but was looking better than when Greg had arrived. “Why did you never take me up on it? Even after your divorce you persistently turned me down. Your attraction to me is as plain as the nose on your face, yet you still refuse.”

Greg tipped his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “You’re always high when you try it on; you haven’t once brought it up when you’re clean and thinking straight.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed. “So, your problem isn't with me, then, but you doubt my intentions.”

“Christ, you make it sound like I’m some virginal maid,” Greg replied exasperatedly, running a hand through his hair. “I won’t scratch an itch for you when you’re high and horny, Sherlock. I won’t take advantage of you like that, either. Try again when you’re sober.”

Greg waited a moment for a reply, but silence reigned. He looked at Sherlock, and found the other man wearing a vacant expression. “You all right?” 

It took a moment for awareness to return to Sherlock’s eyes, and when it did he stood from the sofa and stalked across the room to where his violin was propped up on his chair. “Stradivarius was infinitely superior to other violin markers of his time, and is yet to be surpassed in the craft,” he said, sounding like he was lecturing a class of music students.

Greg let him waffle, knowing that the moment had well and truly passed. 

***  
Forty minutes after leaving Sherlock with Mrs Hudson, Greg found himself standing outside John’s current medical centre. The doctor was a strictly nine to five kind of man in his work, so Greg knew that he wouldn't have long to wait before the other man made an appearance. 

Five minutes later John emerged from the building, and if he was surprised to see Greg lurking outside he didn’t show it. 

“What’s he done this time?” the blond demanded, and Greg wanted to punch him. 

“Nothing,” Greg replied shortly, falling into step beside the shorter man, trying in vain to stop his eyes from drifting to John’s still-bruised knuckles as they walked. “Just came to tell you that if you ever lay a hand on him again I’ll have you up on assault charges so fast you won’t know your arse from your elbows.” 

John stopped and turned to look at Greg, anger clear on his face. “You have no idea what he’s like when he’s high, do you? He was out of control; I had to do something.” 

“Whatever you say, Dr Watson. I’m not arguing with you about the rights and wrongs of beating your best friend for his behaviour when high: I’m telling you that you won’t get away with it again. I don’t want you on my crime scenes, and you’re to stay away from Jacob’s birthday party on Saturday; Rosie's welcome and will be well cared for, but I won’t have someone who thinks it’s okay to kick the shit out of an ill man near my son. Understood?” Greg stared down at John, noting the way he clenched his fists. 

John took a deep breath and inclined his head once, face flushed - with anger or embarrassment Greg could't tell - and marched away. He was quickly swallowed by the throngs of people on the street, and Greg lost him within seconds. 

***  
At seven thirty the following morning, Greg heard the distinctive sound of his front door lock being picked. He leapt out of bed and grabbed the previous day’s boxers from where they had fallen, hopping into them as he crossed the threshold into the living room. 

The door opened and Sherlock entered, his frailty painful to see. “Any chance of a cup of tea?” he asked, pulling his coat tightly around his body. 

“Yeah, course,” Greg said, heading into the kitchen. He flicked the kettle on, put four slices of bread into the toaster and turned the heating up as he waited for the kettle to boil. From the doorway he had a clear line of sight on Sherlock, huddled as he was on the sofa. “Just put the heating on,” he said as he passed back through the living room to his bedroom, where his dressing down was draped across the bottom of the bed. 

Wrapped in his dressing gown, Greg made quick work of preparing the drinks and buttering Sherlock’s toast, though how he got them into the living room without covering himself in hot tea and Lurpak he'd never know. “Here,” he said passing Sherlock the plate of toast. The younger man looked disdainfully at it for a moment before picking up a piece and nibbling on the corner. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“John rang last night. He said you paid him a visit.”

“Yep,” Greg replied, taking a sip of his too-hot tea. 

“He apologised for attacking me. He also said that I can take Rosie on Saturday if I stay clean.”

Greg snorted; in his experience, people who lashed out like that were very rarely truly sorry. “Good. I don’t care what you did; there's no excuse for violence like that.” Noticing the way that Sherlock was shivering, despite his thick coat, Greg pressed a hand to the younger man’s forehead. “You want a jumper?”

“No.”

Silence fell and Greg turned the mug in his hands, not sure what to say.

“Did you mean it? What you said yesterday?”

Though they'd talked about a lot the day before, everything from Hamlet to violins and the tradition of eating turkey at Christmas, Greg knew exactly what Sherlock was referring to. “Yeah, I did.”

“I’m clean now. I’ve not used since before you arrived yesterday.”

Greg swallowed. “What do you want from me?”

“I'm a long way from conventional, but I would like a romantic relationship with you,” Sherlock said, studying his mug. “I told you several years ago that I find you attractive. You are always there for me, whatever I've done, whatever I need. You don't judge me. I trust you.”

Greg leant over and took the mug from Sherlock, placing it on the table. “Look at me. I won’t be an experiment for you to test the waters of relationships, and I won’t be—”

Sherlock silenced Greg with a clumsy kiss, a barely there press of lips. “I’ve long been sexually drawn to you, Greg, but it is only recently that I have realised that it goes deeper than that. There’s an east wind coming, and I didn't want to face it without having told you.”

Greg picked up Sherlock’s left hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to his palm. “There is,” he said, thinking of the warnings he had received from Mycroft. “Mary’s gone, John's angry and grieving, and things are only going to get worse. But you know I’m not going anywhere, yeah? When this east wind comes, we’ll face it together.”

Sherlock smiled, a rare, genuine smile, and Greg felt himself smiling back. There was a definite tension between them, but Greg knew that it was not the time to be acting on it; Sherlock was too fragile, and he needed space to recover, not to be getting embroiled in a new relationship. He was sure, however, that as long as they both survived whatever evil was coming, the right time would come.


End file.
